Virtue & Vice
by 1Scarylady
Summary: In a world where hypocrisy and corruption are as natural as breathing, an incorruptible ally is rarer than purest lyrium.  Set in Antiva, post-DAO.  WARNING:  Antiva is not a very nice place and I don't plan on pulling my punches.
1. Chapter 1: Stranger in a Strange Land

_**As promised, here is the beginning of my new chaptered fic. Those of you who have been reading my stuff for a long time may experience a little deja-vu - I wrote this chapter over a year ago and posted it on SiB. It was chewing at my brain and I had to purge it so I could carry on with T&S. I have also posted Chapter 2, which will be new to all of you. **_

_**Unlike T&S I won't be conforming to a regular posting schedule. You don't want to know how close T&S came to burning me out completely, and I don't want to go there again just yet. But I have always finished what I've begun, and I don't intend to change that anytime soon. I hope you enjoy it, and I look forward to hearing what you all think. Writing Antiva is harder than writing Ferelden, and I need feedback badly in order to get over my nerves. Thank you for reading! Regards, Karen.**  
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_-oOo-_

The sun beats down on the flagged walkways. It glints on the reeking water of the canal, gleams on the pale frontages of the _palazzi, _and flashes on the dainty swords of the strolling _nobili _and of the sons of the rich _commercianti _who ape their ways, distinguishable only by the blatant ostentation of their finery. Its fierce rays fail to penetrate the alleys between and behind the rich _palazzi, _which snake, and bend, and merge until eventually they give way to the grandeur of the Piazza, or to one of several less impressive c_ampi. _

In the backstreets and alleys, the overhanging balconies and buildings provide blessed shade, although the mercy is lessened by the overwhelming stink of refuse, mingling with the stench of the canals to provide an olfactory torture. Not that this has any effect upon the man who sprawls in the deep shade of a squalid doorstep, one arm across his eyes, the other flung out over the steps in the total abandonment of a drunken stupor. A big man, a huge man, his muscular physique not yet wasted by his lifestyle, which is likely the only reason he still wears clothes, and does not sport a wide, red smile around his throat. This is not a good place to drop one's guard so completely.

He wakes with startling suddenness; one moment a rag doll, the next on his feet, brought to a warrior's alertness by… something. A second later, the granddaddy of all headaches slams between his eyes, and he slumps against the wall groaning. "Oh Maker, not again." His voice is husky, rough, but not yet truly broken by fiery spirit. Its timbre suggests that this is merely a matter of time; its despairing tone confirms it more completely.

A noise from the gloomy alley across the way brings his head around sharply, and he curses at the effect of the movement. Guttural laughter and, yes… a scream. That's what woke him, a scream; headache or not, nausea or not, armed or not, he can't ignore that siren call.

He blunders through refuse and night-soil, no thought in his mind, pure instinct overriding the searing pain in his head. Someone is in trouble, nothing more and nothing less. Two men, little more than boys, crouch over a bundle of pink cloth and foaming white lace; a dress and petticoat, flung over the head of a girl, leaving her stockinged legs bare. His roar of rage captures their attention, their hands moving from their breech-fastenings to their knives; but these are no trained killers, and they move too slowly. There is a sickening crack of bone, and one drops his knife with a scream of pain. The other slashes wildly, catching the man across the arm before being slammed against the wall of the alley, the knife spinning away. He punches the boy until he drops unconscious, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm.

The fracas has drawn attention, which the girl's screams did not; a girl in trouble brings no profit, but a brawl offers opportunity for the unconscious or dead to be stripped of possessions. An audience gathers, as he gently rearranges the dress of the sobbing girl, a scared brunette of no more than fourteen perhaps, making the helpless shushing noises of a strong man out of his element. Behind him, knives are drawn across the throats of the injured boys, and hands rifle through pockets. It takes a moment for their presence to penetrate, past the throbbing hangover and the frantic crying of the girl who clings to him. When he turns with a reproving frown, the looters shrug. "They are already dead, _signore_. She is one of Serafina's girls; her house is under the protection of the_ Corvi_."

He pushes against his eye sockets with the heel of his hand, as though to press the pain out through the back of his head, trying to concentrate. "Which house?" he asks. Provided with directions from those stuffing their pockets, he carefully picks up the girl-child and sets off to take her home.

The address is of a fair sized _palazzo_, fronting onto the waterways. The baking sun reflects blindingly off its pale façade, intensifying an already vicious headache. There's no sign outside the door to show whether this is a home, or a house of commerce, but a plaque bears a pair of black iron wings. _Le ali del corvo;_ marking the _palazzo_ as under the protection of the _Corvi_. In Antiva, even an ignorant foreigner learns that sign quickly, or risks sudden death.

A sleepy porter at the door curses at the sight of the man, dripping blood and carrying a half-dazed girl. He scurries into the house, calling for his mistress.

The woman who answers the call has sharp dark eyes at odd variance with her voluptuous body, encased in showy finery. She's a handsome woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with black hair and creamy skin, which no longer holds the blush of youth. "Catarina!" she exclaims on catching sight of the girl. "Come in, _signore_. Please, set her down on the couch."

The man sways where he stands, his eyes unfocussed in the dim hall after the glare of the sun. The fight, the blood loss, and the heat have all mixed badly with his hangover, and now his self-imposed task is complete, his limbs feel like water. He frowns, unable to summon enough co-ordination to do as he was asked, and carefully sets the girl on her feet instead. "Your daughter was attacked, madam, I…" he staggers against a small table, spilling its contents to the marble floor, and tries to recover. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to…" His mind gives up the fight with his body; he slides into unconsciousness, skidding down the wall to land in an ungainly heap.

_-oOo-_

"Such surprising things wash up on the shores of Rialto Bay, eh?"

"As you say, _padrone_." Serafina kept her tone neutral.

The man in the bed did not appear particularly surprising. Unwashed, unshaven foreigners stinking of bad brandy aren't exactly uncommon in Antiva City. The most surprising thing about him was that he saved Caterina, and brought her home. For that, Serafina had been willing to see his wound bound up, and food inside him, rather than having the porter throw him down the steps, as she would with any other drunk.

The arrival of their _padrone_, while the porter was still trying to lug the unconscious body to a seat so they could bandage him, had changed that plan. She had been profuse in her apologies at the unseemly scene, but the _padrone_ had waved her words aside, his gaze on the foreigner. It was at his bidding that the drunk now lay in one of her good chambers. If that was what the_ padrone_ wanted, then that was what he got. He had plucked her from the whorehouse she served in, and set her up in this establishment. Given her an opportunity she could never have dreamed of; to run her own house, a superior house, answerable only to the_ Corvi_. _Why me, padrone?_ she'd asked when he made the offer. _Because you were kind to a child_, he'd said. It was virtually impossible to see the skinny boy she had known in this graceful man. He wore power like a second skin over his beautifully made leather armour.

"I wish you to house him, feed him, dry him out, and put him to work. He will make a good bodyguard, so that your girls may enjoy the air without a repetition of today's drama."

"Him, _padrone_?" A mountain of scorn lay hidden beneath the hesitant question. "Is it safe to have such a one around my girls?" She hated to question her benefactor's wishes, but the virtue of her younger girls was where their value lay.

His laughter was rich, and genuine. "Do not worry, Signora Serafina. His morals are as strong as his sword arm. It is his will that is weak, and that allowed his ideals to break him. Antiva will toughen him up, yes? Make a man of him. And then, perhaps I shall have other work for such a one."

"As you wish, _padrone_. And if he asks why I do this for him? Do you wish to be named?"

"Not at the moment. You are returning his kindness to little Caterina, are you not? She is unharmed?"

"Yes, _padrone_, she remains intact. Her presentation is next week. I apologise for the mishap, she slipped out while the porter answered a call of nature."

"Running away?"

"Looking for _him_."

"Ah. His training will take longer than hers. Until that is complete, she will not find him. Perhaps one day. But in the meantime, finish her preparations. We should catch a sizable fish, with such beauty and sweetness. Now, leave us. I will be out in a moment; have Gina ready for me."

_-oOo-_

Zevran stood looking down at the unconscious man in the bed; at red-gold hair grown wild and filthy; at cheekbones too sharp under flushed, golden skin. Experienced eyes noted all the signs of drink, but he was not too far gone. Not yet. "I caught you just in time, _amico mio_," he murmured softly. "You picked a surer route to death than I did, but slower, much slower. Today, it is my turn to play saviour."

He ran a gentle finger down the sunken cheek, allowing himself the luxury of affection for a scarce moment. Despite the warden's suspicions, and fears, Zevran couldn't begin to count the number of times Alistair's shield had covered him, saved him. Here in Antiva, his virtues were doubly precious for their rarity, while his weakness doubly threatened his life. "For now, you shall stay here, and learn, little templar. Learn about vice." Zevran's low chuckle held nothing of humour. "You think you know all about monsters, yes? You know nothing." His smile was bitter, self-mocking. "Here, we are all monsters, and your goodness, your kindness, is a beacon; one that would have obliterated you quicker than the drink, and more surely than the darkspawn. We must temper that goodness with wisdom, before I dare expose you to my world. But for now, you are safe."

_-oOo-_


	2. Chapter 2: Rub a Dub Dub

_-oOo-_

Alistair awoke to a soft bed and a sore head. Dim evening light seeped into the room through wooden blinds. _Maker, where am I? I thought I… _ He stopped, too ashamed to continue even in the privacy of his own mind, but the thoughts swirled there anyway, despite his preference.

_I thought I drank myself into unconsciousness_.

_I thought I passed the night in the corner of a seedy inn, or down an alley_ _with the rest of the trash_.

This was no inn, or certainly not the kind he frequented. There was a light perfume in the air; the type of delicate flowery scent favoured by young girls in this country, where the intense sunlight and heat intensified all smells to the point of excess.

He shifted, the movement producing a groan as pain lanced through his head. A dim figure separated itself from the shadows and turned into an old woman; shapeless black dress, and a black shawl shrouding white hair. She did not speak, but merely left the room.

Before he could summon the will to react, to once again risk movement, she returned with reinforcements. Now there were three of them, carrying pails of steaming water that they poured into a bath. More pails appeared, passed from unseen hands outside the door, until the bath was full. One of the women turned to him and gestured, indicating that the bath was for him.

"Um, thanks, er… you can go now…please?" His voice was rough, his throat burning. Maker, he needed a drink.

One of the old women turned to the others and said something in Antivan, her voice cracked, her accent too thick for him to decipher. They cackled and turned purposefully to the bed, stripping the covers from him and taking his arms.

"What? No! I mean, stop it. Look I'm a grown man, I can b- Hey!"

The last sharp expostulation was caused by them stripping from him the nightclothes he wore, their bony fingers surprisingly strong as they held him. _Where did the clothes come from anyway? I don't own a nightshirt_. A bandage on his forearm, the sudden stiffness as he moved it and the distinctive smell of a poultice, distracted him long enough for them to usher him into the bath.

_Maker, what happened?_

Stick-thin fingers began to scrub him impersonally, and slowly the raging blush, that had risen when he was stripped, subsided. Alistair was irresistibly reminded of the stablemaster's wife at Redcliffe, scrubbing a small boy who seemed incapable of staying clean for five minutes at a time. It was soothing to be treated so, to forget for just a little while that he was a man now, with half a lifetime of errors behind him.

The arrival into his orbit of another elderly lady, this one bearing a straight razor and a bowl of thick creamy lather failed to disturb the peaceful mood that had descended on him. Her hands were steady, the scrape of the razor sure and confident over the beard growth of… how long? Alistair frowned. Months, probably. Certainly since before the sea journey to Antiva, the short-lived contract as a guard that had brought him here. The thirst raged in his throat; but a scan of the room showed no handy bottles or decanters, and the sour fragrance of old ale – soaked into the very boards of taverns – was missing. _Not an inn, then._ _Where in Andraste's name am I?_ He tried, in his slightly broken Antivan, to ask. It took a couple of tries before he got a response, either because his Antivan was too poor or because they were reluctant to speak to him. The answer was delivered in an accent so thick as to be practically incomprehensible, but Alistair made it out to be _la casa di fantasia_: the house of… he was not certain of the meaning of the last word… dreams, perhaps?

His musings were abruptly interrupted when the lather was briskly applied to his hair and the razor took its first stroke over his scalp.

"Hey, no!" He struggled to move, to escape the water; a cluster of vein-knotted but surprisingly strong arms seized and held him. "What are you doing? Not my hair!" His struggles narrowly escaped causing an unfortunate collision between the razor and his ear, and the woman holding it stepped back at the same moment as Alistair froze in place.

"_Pidocchi_." The word she spoke, obviously in explanation, meant nothing to Alistair. At his look of blank confusion, she reached out with two skinny fingers and delved into his hair. He heard a tiny crack as her fingers withdrew past his ear and understood before she held out the broken brown-ish body on a fingernail smeared with blood. _Fleas._ His face burned anew and he ducked his head, making no further protest as she shaved his head and worked into his scalp some strong-smelling unguent, which reminded him of the scent of an opened wooden chest. Pine? _No._ Cedar. That was it, the paste smelt of cedar wood. Once Alistair's head felt raw and strange, the razor and the paste moved to scrape over his armpits and a new concern raised its ugly head. _Maker, is she going to-? Everywhere? _However, after a closer inspection than he was _at all_ comfortable with – and endured with his eyes squeezed tight shut and his fists clenched – he was spared that particular indignity. With a satisfied grunt the razor and bowl were set aside, and Alistair let out his breath in a relieved sigh.

One more vigorous scrubbing of his skin and the small tribe of elderly ladies appeared content. He was encouraged by gestures to stand, to step out of the bath, and enveloped in rough towels which relieved his modesty issues and abraded his blushing skin in equal measure. There seemed no question of his being permitted to dry himself; once again he was reminded irresistibly of his childhood, of scolding women rubbing coarse towels over his small body, with a complete disregard for his yelps and complaints.

Clothes were produced; not the ones he arrived in, filthy with dirt and spilt booze. These were clean and serviceable, the cream linen trousers and white shirt commonly worn here in Antiva, where pale colours and thin fabrics were the norm. By the time Alistair was dressed a tray of food arrived, borne by yet another white-haired woman, as brown and wrinkled as a date. At the sight and smell of the food – a bowl of hearty bean stew fragrant with herbs – his stomach rebelled and he shook his head.

"I'm not hungry; I need- I mean, can I have a drink? _Birra, per favore._"

A click of the tongue and quick shake of the head. A spoonful of stew hovered an inch from his face. "_Mangi_." The cracked voice brooked no refusal and Alistair's mouth opened without volition. With a warm mouthful of beans and tomatoes, various systems which had been ignored for too long reared their heads. Taste buds sent signals to stomach and brain and the return messages approved heartily. Nourishment was, they clamoured, a good thing, and Alistair chewed and swallowed under their combined urgings. There was another brief rebellion when the food actually hit his stomach, and for a moment Alistair thought he was going to reject it, but the next spoonful was easier. By the fourth, he'd taken the spoon off them and was eating for himself, his Warden appetite re-emerging from self-imposed famine, tearing into the bread that accompanied the stew, mopping up final juices with the crust.

Washed, fed and clothed, he felt more human than he had since the-

His mind shifted away from that. Better than in a long time. That was enough.

_-oOo-_

The young man who was ushered into Serafina's sitting-room bore little resemblance to the filthy, unshaven drunk who had bled all over her hall the previous day. The removal of grime and facial hair revealed a square face, strong jaw, and hazel eyes unclouded by drink, but still somewhat bloodshot. No broken veins in his nose or cheeks, and only a tiny tremor in his hands; the _padrone_ was, as always, correct. He was not yet too far gone to be dried out and put to work. Regarding the _Maestro Corvo's_ connection to this one, Serafina quashed her curiosity. Signore Arainai was known to have spent time in cold, muddy Ferelden, before his emergence as one of the brightest new stars in the Corvi firmament. He had his reasons, no doubt.

"You are the one who saved Catarina. You have my thanks." Ugh, the Ferelden tongue was so drab, like cold custard or boiled potatoes in her mouth. Foreign tongues had not come easily to her, but were necessary if she wished her House to be seen as superior.

He bowed in the Ferelden style, with an awkwardness that came from self-consciousness, not low breeding. Interesting. "Um… you're welcome, madam… er, I mean _signora_."

"I have need of a strong man who may be trusted with my girls. I would offer you a job, as a guard, yes?"

"Really?" He made no attempt to mask his astonishment, or the eagerness in his eyes or voice. There was no artifice here, no guile. "Your daughters, _signora_?"

She laughed softly. "No, Alistair, my girls." _Merda_, she'd used his name without realising, drawn in by his own blatant honesty. Fortunately he did not appear to have noticed, so she moved smoothly on. "This is a house of pleasure. A whorehouse for the rich and powerful, under the protection of the_ Corvi_, you understand?" If the rich blush rising from his throat to his cheeks was any indication, then he did.

"There is a condition, however." The wild look he gave her suggested he was getting entirely the wrong idea. _Sacro Coure di Andraste, does he think I intend him to whore for his living? _"You will not drink. Not now, not at any time you remain in my employ. You will go daily to the sweat baths, purge the poisons from your system. Signora Cosma, in the kitchens, will brew you a posset to quell your cravings; you shall drink this three times a day." The look she gave him was cool and hard. The one he returned reminded her of a puppy crouched by a puddle of piss. "I am giving you one chance. One, and only one. It is up to you what you do with it."

"I… understand, signora. Thank you." His response seemed heartfelt, genuine. It meant nothing. In a month or two, if he kept off the bottle, perhaps she might believe it.

"_Buono_. Go now; the porter will instruct you in your duties."

_-oOo-_


	3. Chapter 3: The Centre of the World

_-oOo-_

Zevran lounged in his seat, every nerve alive and every muscle taut behind the relaxed façade. Only a fool would be genuinely relaxed in such company.

_Corvi _and _commercianti _mingled freely in the palatial receiving hall of the marble-clad palazzo, against a backdrop of delicately painted friezes that stretched from floor to ceiling. Wine flowed without stint, served by senior Corvi apprentices. Their bodies moved fluidly through the crowd with the trays balanced easily on their fingers, while their eyes took in every nuance of the voices and expressions of their Masters, seeking any tiny advantage that may be prised from this opportunity.

Not that there was much to be seen, by any lacking the most subtle training: bodies appeared relaxed, laughter unforced. Smiles were apparently much in fashion. However, one more experienced may note that, no matter how the mingling knots and groups of people may surge and flow, every face sooner or later turned, however minutely, to where a single man faced a single woman, each flanked by subordinates.

For the better part of a decade the Zacchi, greatest of the banking families of Antiva, had been locked in a cold, secret, private feud with the _Corvi_; no-one wished to miss the moment when Antonia di Zacchi took the hand of friendship from _Il Nascosto Corvo._

Not that the slim, wiry man currently accepting a drink from a passing waiter _was_ Il Nascosto. In fact, there was speculation about whether the Hidden Crow, the head of the vast _Corvi_ operation, even existed. One of the _Quintino_, the Five, stood in for him at all public functions and all his pronouncements came through them. Today that honour quite rightly went to the man known as _Il Denaro_, The Money. It was he who had brokered this peace, patiently picking at the threads of blood and insult that stood between the Zacchi and the _Corvi_. It was he who stood now, his distinctive Crow musculature hidden under immaculately tailored silks, to finalise the reconciliation with a public embrace.

Zevran smirked against the rim of his goblet, watching the rigidly smiling woman and the seemingly relaxed man. Reconciliation, indeed; _Il Denaro_ was here to receive the submission of the Zacchi, their acceptance that no-one in Antiva – not even the most powerful of the _commercianti_ – could stand against the Crows_._ Three brothers Antonia had lost over the last year, each of them apparently perishing of natural causes. The – genuinely natural – death of their stiff-necked father had opened up an opportunity hitherto lacking, and the _Corvi_ had taken full advantage of it. The deaths of the two younger Zacchi brothers had led those watching to expect Antonia to be next, forcing the eldest Zacchi boy, Renaldo, to relent before he too succumbed to disease or accident. Instead it had been Renaldo who died, of a heart attack at a public ceremony, leaving Antonia as the head of the family.

The Quintino – for Zev did not for a second believe that so important a decision would be left to merely one of them – had picked their mark well: Antonia di Zacchi had chosen to live in peace with the _Corvi_ before she entirely ran out of family members. Now, under the gaze of assassins, bankers and merchants – everyone who truly mattered in Antiva – she took the hand of _Il Denaro_, and through him _Il Nascosto_ and all the Crows, and accepted his cool embrace.

"Ah, Zevran. You are well, I trust?"

Zev's sight of the epic moment was blocked by the appearance of possibly the only person here who seemed satisfied to have his back to the spectacle. _But why would he need to see it; most certainly he knows exactly what is planned._ "Extremely well, I thank you." Zevran unfolded from his seat, standing politely until his visitor was seated. No trace of his curiosity or confusion was permitted expression. "May I offer you a drink?"

"I thank you, no." Small, rather prim, lips twisted in an expression of vague distaste as he sat, crossed one elegantly tailored leg over the other. "I find this vintage a little harsh for my palate."

Zevran allowed himself a chuckle, hoping that it sounded as easy and relaxed as he wished it to. Like all Crow Masters he reported to several of the _Quintino_, according to his strengths and contacts. _Il Denaro_, the Money, of course; practically everyone did. _Il Coltello_, the Knife; all contracts farmed out to the Masters and their cells passed through his hands first. _Il Malandra_, the Scoundrel owned every beggar, thief and whore in the city - possibly in the entire country – and Zevran didn't think for one second that the whores in his own establishment were any exception. There were only two of the _Quintino_ who had not, so far, cast their eyes in his direction. _Il Pavone_, the Peacock, dealt primarily with the nobility and the King's court; the _Corvi de Nobile_ - the half-trained, unruly cells passed down as a rich inheritance from noble father to son – came under his purview. Lastly there was the man currently seated opposite Zevran, his calm eyes critically examining the mosaic inlay of the small table between them. _Il Bocca_, the Mouth, master negotiator and manipulator. Every law that was passed in Antiva – and perhaps several other countries - did so with his approval. Every political appointment was made according to his preference.

With no particular contacts or interest in such matters, Zevran was at a loss to understand why he'd been singled out. However, one did not blurt such ignorance to any Crow, and certainly not to the _Quintino_. Therefore he sipped his own wine and waited for _Il Bocca_ to enlighten him.

_Il Denaro_ led Antonia di Zacchi to a seat at a prominent table, so that they may accept the congratulations of the mighty on their renewed alliance. At Zevran's discreet corner table, _Il Bocca_ made his opening gambit.

"Such a colourful history you have, _assassino di drago, _even by the standards of the_ Corvi._ To have faced an archdemon and lived," the Mouth tilted his head respectfully, "this is an achievement any man would envy."

_Dragonkiller_. Not the worse moniker a man may acquire. Zev had heard it from many mouths since his return to Antiva two years ago; in his own cell he'd become known as _Il Drago_. It was most amusing.

"_Grazie mille, Maestro_." Zevran lifted his goblet in a salute and waited for more, curbing his natural impulse to fill the silence with droll chatter.

"It is fortunate, indeed, that you were able to bring your contract to such a successful conclusion." _Il Bocca_ smiled with both lips and eyes, which meant nothing. A well-trained Crow may simulate any emotion. "The safety of the remaining Wardens was of paramount importance to us all."

A fascinating fiction, this was, and the basis of Zevran's comfortable niche as the newest _Maestro Corvo_. Following the death of the archdemon it had not been possible to hide his continued existence from the Corvi; the Blight Companions, as they came to be known, were universally feted and the name _Zevran _turned up in too many bardic tales. The expected assassination attempt had, however, never materialised; instead a letter arrived, by a convoluted route, and the contents were quite unexpected.

_We are pleased with the success of your contract; to infiltrate and protect the remaining Ferelden Grey Wardens from harm until such time as the Blight ends. Come home to Antiva, and take up the honours due to one who has served us so well._

After some deliberation, he had done so. There was nothing now for him in Ferelden; Duran Aeducan had returned to Orzammar, to take his place in the Assembly as a Paragon. The rest of the companions were either dead or scattered. Anyway, to refuse such an intriguing proposition… really, how could he have slept at night without knowing how it ended?

"The Hero is well, I trust? You remain in correspondence with him?"

_Ah, here is the meat of the matter, perhaps_. "I have received only a little news and that second-hand." Zev shrugged delicately. "We _Corvi_ hardly care to advertise our whereabouts, no? It has taken some time to put in place secure drop points for my correspondence; perhaps I shall now receive tidings of my good friend in Orzammar."

_Or possibly not_. Duran was as cold and hard as the stone he came from; in truth, the dwarf had formed no cosy friendships, with Zevran or anyone else.

"His brother, King Bhelen, is a reformer, is he not? Such rumours as have reached me suggest that he is making great changes to his reclusive nation."

A picture flashed into Zev's mind: Alistair's face of horror when Duran had made clear his intention to put his treacherous brother on the throne. "_But he set you up, tried to have you killed. How can you possibly help him?_"

The dwarven Warden had remained pragmatic. "_Harrowmont on the throne while an Aeducan still lives? I'll see him dead first_." For his brother's treachery there was only grudging respect. "_It was a superb plan; I never thought Bhelen had it in him_." Duran mused on the beauty and symmetry of it a moment longer and sighed wistfully. "_I wish I'd thought of it_."

"He certainly seemed full of ideas when he was preparing to take the throne, _Maestro_." Zev was curious to know what _Il Bocca_ was leading up to. The thaigs ran under parts of Antiva, but however much territory Bhelen reclaimed, he was unlikely to reach so far during his lifetime.

The man seated across from him tapped one polished fingernail on the mosaic tabletop. "The dwarven Cartel, resident now in many nations, have their uses, but they are perhaps becoming a little big for their boots. We have been forced to remind them that they are merely merchants, not _assassini_. And now, King Bhelen plans to sell them his… _brands,_ I believe they are called, his surplus citizens?" At Zevran's surprised nod, he continued on. "For the Cartel to gain so greatly in numbers right now would not be acceptable, and we are always on the lookout for talented recruits. And so I ask you this, Zevran: can you get our representative an audience with Paragon Duran or even better, King Bhelen, so that we may make our own bid for these 'brands'?"

_Ah_. Buy them all out from under the noses of the Cartel, cherry-pick the talented and find some other use for the rest. If all else failed, they could be sold on to the Imperium. It made sense.

"I am happy to be of service, _Maestro._ I shall send a letter to Orzammar today. I can make no promises, of course, but the dwarves are nothing if not hard-headed. They will appreciate the advantage of having a second bidder in the game, I am sure." _And I shall have a sizeable advantage in the only important game in the world, right here in Antiva. _Il Bocca_ shall think of me favourably_.

It meant yet another master, another lock on the gilded cage. _But with such a comfortable cage, why should I ever wish to leave_?

_-oOo-_


End file.
